


Black isn't a colour, it's the absence of light

by roo1965



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, F/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-04
Updated: 2004-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-01 03:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roo1965/pseuds/roo1965
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Homecoming isn't always a glorious rush into each others arms</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black isn't a colour, it's the absence of light

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-series Jack/Sara  
> slice of life, angst  
> sequel- Blackbird

It is dark. No chink of light anywhere. Pitch black. Lamp black. Black as the black hole of Calcutta . Black as the ace of spades. Black as a coal scuttle. Black as night.

And Jack does not know where he is. For a split second he thinks he has gone blind and puts his hand up to his eyes. Feels the eyelids move and blink. Eyes wide open. Still black, still dark. But he doesn't hurt anywhere, and so rules out trauma. Patiently in the absolute inky stillness, he processes.

Soft sheets, a newly washed fragrance comes from the duvet. A single pillow under his head, just the way he likes it, unlike Sara who likes at least two

Oh, home then. In the quiet he hears soft steady breathing and registers the warmth of a body nearby. His wife. Finally his mind and body catch up.

So tired, but still tense, restless, still battle ready, still alert. Something woke him, he lays waiting for another clue, another instance so he can deal with it or ignore it as a threat.

There! What was that? Before he thinks about it, he has slipped silently out of bed and stands at the window to one side. He would never stand directly in front of the window. Peering sideways out of the curtains, he sees that the tree on the front lawn needs trimming; the light wind makes the too long branches knock against the side of the house.

But he has to make sure anyway. He prowls round the house securing his perimeter. It is his house, and he knows it well. He can do this in the dark; he is after all used to it. He cannot stop himself. He cannot relax. He finds it difficult to make the transition between wanting to come home whilst away on duty, and _being_ back home in reality. It is always like this. It always takes him a day or so to adjust. For all he knows, Sara must have to adjust to having him around again.

On that thought he silently returns to the master bedroom and slips into bed. He lets out a soft sigh and tries to relax into sleep, so that when he wakes up next time it will be as Jack O'Neill devoted and loving husband and neighbour and not Major J.J.O'Neill, USAF Special Forces who might just try and shoot back uselessly with empty fingers if a car backfires.

Jack loves his wife and he is genuinely glad to be back, but he cannot lose himself in her. Not now. Not yet. She is too soft and forgiving and he cannot bear it. He cannot let her near him until he is sure. They have both learnt from mistakes made in the past. They are both still learning even after several years.

Sometimes he feels he does not deserve her. She is such a prize. How did a flyboy like him win her, he wonders? Once seen, never forgotten. So he'd pursued her. Lock on target. Target acquired. Splashdown. But he knows really. She's smart and talks back and she loves him. She is other half. His better half he tells her. And together the two of them are so strong. They have weathered separations, minor injuries and a biggie after the slow opening parachute incident. Housebound and out of action, she managed to sooth and keep him focused just when he needed it most. He feels there's nothing they cannot do. He wishes that she is not so alone while he's gone. He knows she talks to the other wives. It's good in some ways, but they tell each other such stories he thinks they are worse than his unit, and that's saying something.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sara feels him jerk awake, and she lies perfectly still as he works out what is going on. She knows now, not to speak or to touch him until he is ready to cope with being home. In the dark she waits with him.

Another soft thud, scrape. And he's out of bed in a silent swift motion, graceful and fast. One arm and hand cocked ready with a non existent gun. And she knows he's standing there in his boxers, his dog-tags gently swaying, but the rubber edges stop them from clinking. He stands at the window, peering from the side as if there is a sniper is posted across the street. She knows it's the tree, but he has to find out for himself. Sure enough he pads quietly out of the room. She has lost count the number of times they go through this routine on his return from active duty. She cannot ask where he has been or what he has done. Sometimes is not so bad, other times it is very hard.

There is nothing she wants more than to welcome his hard lean, slightly scarred and weary body back into her life. She misses him intensely, but she has also learned to carry on without him. Sometimes she feels as if she is two different people. She wants to wrap her warm soft body round him and bring him all the way home and claim him for herself. And she knows that she will, for she has that power. But not now .Not yet. When the time is right.

Her father was wary about the courtship and the marriage, but they both knew what they wanted. She thinks back to the early days of their marriage, she treasures the fun and the laughter, before he began to have more responsibilities and the parachute accident. She needs to hang onto those memories while she waits for the stranger who is her husband to cast off his other self.

Sometimes she wonders how she won him. He was so good looking, she couldn't understand why he was still single by the time she'd met him. Once he'd found her, she couldn't get rid of him, or that is what she tells him. She wonders what she's done to deserve him, but she certainly isn't going to let him go now. She knows they are great together, but secretly she wishes they could be a family. They have talked about it, but he never presses her. What will be will be. But she feels that she is holding things up, and letting the side down however loving and patient he is. She has seen him with other peoples children and knows he will be even better with his own, their own. She wants to give him this.

But for now she waits. Tomorrow she can set him heavy chores to tire him out and settle the restless spirit. Later perhaps she can distract him with 'other' incentives on the menu too. She has her own tactics, and she is used to waiting. It will be worth it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

He knows that she is awake, waiting for his reaction. He hates being like this. It isn't as if he is afraid of the dark. Sure they need the light for navigation and getting to drop zones, but down on the ground darkness is your friend.

Sometimes in the split second between waking and rational thought in the pitch black he flashes back to evasion and interrogation training, and worse of all that parachuting mishap. That time he really had gone temporarily blind and he thought he'd lost everything.

He is home now. Back to his creaky garage door and the front tree that obviously needs trimming, and a backlog of hockey tapes to watch. And don't forget the wife. As if. He is looking forward to coming home to her.

In the morning he has plans for that tree. He'll ask Sara if there are any other heavy jobs that needed doing. Preferably something homey and domestic that he can get his teeth into. Perhaps he'll feel more like himself then.

She knows by now. She will smile at him and tell him what to do around the place, while she tidies and bakes and tells him the neighbourhood news. And if they have both judged things right, she might offer him cake as a reward.

He thinks he can definitely do cake by tomorrow afternoon. It will be worth it. 

END 


End file.
